Ante Meridiem
by LitttleRibs
Summary: Despite everything, I've got you. RyuSatsu/Ryuko la Satsuki. Mirrored on ArchiveofourOwn. Rating for intoxication.


Mirrored on ArchiveofOurOwn.

/

For most people, the sound of the door waking one up at 3 a.m. causes alarm, but even as my eyes snap open, my mind knows it's you. You're late again. And judging by the stumble I hear in the kitchen as you open the refrigerator, it's not just because of work. I blink a few times to clear my eyes of sleep, mind still clouded with grogginess. I'm laying in bed, propped up with a book in my lap. Again, I've dozed off waiting up for you. You always tell me to go to sleep, not to wait up, and sometimes I don't. But that is always outnumbered by the times that I do. I like to rest knowing that everything is as it should be. Like knowing the house is clean, or that the car is filled with gas.

That you are safe and well. That is always of utmost importance. I am not a worrier, but I find utmost solace in knowing.

I am not a worrier, but the sound of glass breaking makes me hurry in putting my robe on, and I walk swiftly to where you are. I already know what to expect: your tired and lazy stare as you sway ever slightly, but still having that cocky grin as you look at me. You always say I look the most beautiful when I am not wearing any makeup, and am clothed in something extremely humble, like sweatpants or my underwear. I understand your logic, but I always shake my head and give a sidelong smile, disagreeing, but welcoming your flattery. It is the best kind of compliment, especially coming from you. You always make me feel beautiful, even in your inebriated state.

I am expecting these things, but when I turn the corner to the kitchen, a gasp passes through my lips. You are on the floor, lying on your side, a smear of liquid spread across the floorboards where you've slipped. If it would be worth it, I would sue the company who makes your supposed non-skid footwear, but knowing you, you've probably tread the soles down past their use. Your eyes are shut in pain, and as I kneel over you, brushing the hair out of your face, I can smell the whiskey on your breath. My brow furrows, partly in dismay, concern, frustration.

You're drinking too much again, Ryuko.

It's been quite a while since I've seen you this sloppy. I do not normally mind alcohol, but it is a different story when used in excess. It bothers me to see you handed over to intoxication, a different part of yourself that is not natural. I save any berating comments for later, however. They won't do any good now. Your hair smells like cigarettes and beer as I bend to slip my arms around your back, your chin resting on my shoulder as I lift you up. Your stubbornness moves you to move away, your hand to catch the kitchen table, and you pause to regain your bearings. You won't look at me. That's when I see it.

In the dim light, I can now see the blood on your collar, the silken threads of your undone bowtie frayed and torn. If you try to shrug it off as some sort of sauce from the restaurant, you can't fool me.

"Ryuko."

"..Thought I said not to wait up for me."

"I didn't." I lie. "But it's past 3, and you're just now getting home."

I stop myself. There's no point in trying to reason right now, and there are more important things to tend to. I grow more concerned, hoping there aren't any serious injuries on your person. Judging by your drunken state, a few things may have evaded your attention for the moment. I grasp your shoulders gently, pushing with light pressure to turn you around. You resist, which isn't surprising in the slightest.

"I'm fine."

"Let me see."

I keep my words firm, but not accusing or demanding. Above everything, I just want to see that you're okay. That's what matters most to me.

"Ryuko."

There is assertiveness in my voice this time, and you relinquish your secrecy and turn to face me, bowing your head. Something wet drips from your bangs, falls upon your dark slacks. My fingertips find the tuxedo pleats in your shirt, flitting over and down the garment. The fabric is ripped in a few places, and the red that stains around those areas makes my heart drop. Somehow, I already knew it, but the confirmation makes me shiver. You've been fighting again. That would explain the bag of frozen peas you've grabbed from the freezer- now laying uselessly near where you fell.

But, instead of scolding you, I help you to the bathroom where you sit heavily upon the toilet, coax you out of your shirt. The hiss you pull through your teeth tells me that you're hurting too much to fake bravery at this point. I start a warm bath and begin to examine your wounds. It doesn't take long to decipher that whatever bastard you decided to go up against had a knife. And you are stubborn enough to not back down. None of the cuts are deep enough to require a trip to the emergency room, but I'm going to have to make use of the butterfly stitches I bought a while ago. I examine the rest of you, which seems fine. No broken bones. Tilting your head back toward the light, looking into your eyes-one of them is black and swollen, of course, clouded with alcohol but ever their vibrant cobalt blue. I love your eyes, and seeing them unfocused, trying to squint against the light hurts something inside of me, frustrates me. I bite those feelings back as I register that your pupils are of matching size, but something small hitting the tiled floor catches my attention.

It is a sliver of glass. It takes everything in my not to start fuming. I know you always make fun of my protectiveness, but it's just that kind of thing that sets me off.

_Who did this to you? _

I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath. I must keep focused on you, not wherever the sorry pigs that hurt you might be. You're nodding off, head dipping down. I look through your hair for more glass, picking out a few pieces before my fingers find the area of laceration, my fingers touching your warm, wet blood. You flinch. "Sorry." I whisper, and you mumble something, but resume your position. It doesn't seem like a concussion, but a broken bottle over the head is still no light matter.

The bath is finally full. You do not protest as I help you out of your pants, socks, underwear. I expect a wisecrack about you expecting me to undress you in a different sort of situation, but you keep silent. I wonder if it's because of your exhaustion, or the alcohol. Probably both.

"I need you to stay awake for me." I explain, kneeling to embrace you again, lifting you up using my legs to help direct you into the bath. The noises of relief that come from you help me relax, if even for a moment. The soapy washcloth feels good on your cheeks, and I take my time, watching as your eyes slip closed and you breathe out, almost in reverence. You're so tired that I let your head rest in my hand as the other cleans you.

It isn't until I reach the injuries upon your torso that you tense up again, pushing my hand away instinctively. I shush you, running my hand through your hair carefully, tracing to your chin to remind you to trust me. As always, it works, and you sit still and endure the pain. You know it's for the better. You're tough. Too tough for your own good. Once we're done, I lean in to press a gentle kiss on your shoulder, even nuzzling lightly before draining the water and helping you stand to towel you off.

Even in your stubbornness, you're brave. I always acknowledge that, whether you know or not. It's one of the things I admire most about you.

It doesn't take long to affix your butterfly stitches, and I apply gauze padding on top of that so that they won't shift. The injuries add a rugged attractiveness to you- more rugged than normal, and I know you're going to brag about it tomorrow. I, however, won't be so amused. You need to be good to yourself, and that includes not getting yourself into situations like this in the first place.

Thankfully your head injury has already closed up. You're going to have such a terrible headache tomorrow. You let yourself fall into bed, exhausted from the effort it took to get there. I help you slide your legs in, while you moan something about being left alone. How silly. You know I'm coming in right after you. Your body is warmer than normal from the bathwater, bare back pressed against my likewise unclothed body as we get comfortable under the plush comforter. I still cannot dwell on the lecture I'm likely going to give you tomorrow, for my mind is too busy being thankful that things didn't turn out worse. Even a seasoned brawler like you isn't perfect. What is it going to take before you realize you're in too deep?

Your calm, even breaths shake me out of my thoughts, and to my relief you've already fallen asleep. The rhythmic motion of your body confirms that, and I pull you close against me, careful not to touch your fresh wounds.

I knew from the beginning that we would share nights like this- even before we started dating. And now, two years later, I can say that this isn't the first time this has happened. But out of all of it- the frustration, the pain, the worry, I always find myself being thankful, so thankful, that I'm here, with you. My whispered words ruffle your hair.

"Goodnight, Ryuko."


End file.
